The Madman
by Heddwig
Summary: The Doctor has a strange dream about an old companion.


I'm American so if you spot anything that seems out of place, please let me know.

**I do not own DW nor am I affiliated with it. I am not seeking to make profit from this, this merely is just me writing for the benefit of me and others. No infringement meant at all.**

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"_Doctor!"_ Her voice is shrill and frantic, and somewhere in-between a yell and a shriek...so, a yelp? Either way, her tone without question causes him to worry about her own safety and like the odd madman he is, he immediately darts toward the direction of her voice that rebounded everywhere. One moment, her cry of his name was toward the back of his left ear and the next, it was around the top of his head or at his feet. He didn't know which direction to go, so many corridors...so many _doors_. Why must the TARDIS be so...so...so _busy_?

..._And why isn't the ruddy ship helping him?_ That alone is enough to make him go mad, far more than he already is, as the levels of desperation and frustration within himself start to rise.

"_Doctor!"_ There her voice goes again, like a recording, and within the span of a few literal seconds, realization comes upon him just as he sees a rather lanky fellow standing beside her bed. Regardless of what rational thought tells him, he keeps up a steady pace-the bed and awkwardly-standing figure can never quite get close enough..._even if he hops for Rassilon's sake!_ It was like those bloody mind-paralyzing scenes in programs where the direction the individual wanted to go kept stretching away, never quite in reach.

The man, dressed in a black suit, did the not-so-funniest thing (the Doctor swears he has seen far worse, in his opinion) by lifting his head to stare at the bland wall in front of him and then turned his head completely around, much like an owl. Not exactly prepared for that, but still running despite his useless efforts to stop, the Doctor purses his lips together in a way that would often lead to him drawing out the word "_well_" and a side-nod of his head.

Then another sensation overwhelmed him, like the ground beneath his Chuck Taylor-covered feet had suddenly disappeared and the sinking feeling in his stomach made that a very obvious observation. The man that might as well be an, well, owl humanoid directed his attention back on the very woman whose voice called to the Doctor moments before. He looks down at her in the most peculiar way, just as he had done before, and brings up one oddly-shaped hand to caress the blonde locks of hair that framed her face.

_How dare he_, the Doctor manages to think just before all his eyes could see was blackness surrounded by the feeling of anxiety. _Touching his Rose..._

Then another thought, he's just about to think but it feels more surreal this time...it's unlike everything he has just thought and a huge, whopping, grin stretches onto his wild face. _Ah..._, his brilliant mind finally understands but he doesn't get to bask in the moment for too long because within the snap of fingers, he bolts upright. Sweat coaxes his entire body, and his breathing rate is unusually fast; it is then that he realizes how fervent he is.

Bringing his large hands up to his face, running his fingers through his wild, untamed hair that styled itself whichever way, and slapping himself every now and again, the Doctor is unsure. It's not often that he's unsure and miffed about something; and if he says he is, well that's just him lying so as not to worry those around him. Compulsive, he is. But this time he can't seem to find the dividing border between a dream and right now though to a casual observer, they could tell the difference like it was night and day. Yet his thoughts were hazed, almost like they were purposely blurred so that some of his dream could fool him into thinking they were actual events and vice versa.

At once, just as quickly as he was to sit upright, the Doctor kicks and throws the sheets off of his body and wanders through the labyrinth that is the TARDIS. For a while he is unsure what he is searching for, or who, but as soon as he subconsciously stops-still facing the direction he was intent on going-he understands. First he turns his head fifteen degrees to the right, then forty-five, then ninety...as if he was unsure of himself but there etched in Gallifreyan is Rose's name. A sense of remorse creeps into his being.

His body turns the direction of his head and he swallows down a lump. _Give me this one, just..._ his hand reaches for the doorknob and turns it, obviously unaware of the inner-turmoil, and eases the door open, poking his head in. Part of him expected to see Rose sleeping or sitting by her desk, he didn't really know what she would do in her room, but another knew it to be deserted but he was still taken aback by the darkness and coldness of her abandoned room still very much occupied.

Mentally he had already prepared an excuse-or rather, an apology that would be followed by a question-that would involve a lot of stuttering and pointing behind over his shoulder. He'd be just as awkward as he had ever been, talking like a millions of thoughts crashed into each other as he spoke...not quite sure what to say or how to say it and in which order. And she'd grin, tongue between her teeth, with an ever-so-concerned look transforming her golden face.

_His Rose..._, his entire being longs to see her again and wishes she could materialize like his old ship.

"_S'thing wrong, Doctor?"_ She'd ask, hardly thinking about herself and her safety, always thinking of others... his Rose, so very like her; it would be bloody odd if she didn't anyway.

Instead the room is vacated though the souvenirs and unmade bed would suggest otherwise; her memory was very much present in this room, her room, thanks to the TARDIS thoughtfully, and unintentionally, pulling his hearts every direction. A hum presses into his mind and he looks down for a moment, waving his hand around.

"_Oh,_ it's not you, you old thing..." he trails off, unable to finish his babbling that always made sense to the TARDIS. He looks at the bed, his dream forging into actuality, and for a quick moment he swears she had materialized like he had hoped (and hoped, he did, so many times) onto the bed. At first shes lying down, the figure with its back toward him standing there, and then she's sitting upright with her legs crossed and a magazine open on the duvet, with her attention fully and completely trained on him. Perhaps if she were actually there, she'd see the dormant look on his face, dark and foreboding while also mixed with sadness and a certain kind of brokenness.

A brokenness only achieved when the hope of ever getting someone back was just as good as the Doctor telling the absolute truth; slim to none.

"Oh, Rose," he starts to say and cuts himself short-just now hearing the tone of his voice. Sad and weighted, soft and empty yet...so full of everything, of life.

Turning around now he starts to exit the room and closes the door with a gentle click, treating the door with the utmost respect as if that were actually Rose. Barely to himself, he chuckles as he takes slow, staggering steps toward his room as if he dreaded returning to his own bed.

The Madman and his box.


End file.
